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cupied the center most of the time.
And now the fascination, of the game
had hegun to take hold of me. In
stead of watching the play I watched
the lips of the characters. The words
they spoke and I discovered for the
first time that they really spoke
seemed quite divorced from the parts
that they were playing. But, strive
as hard as I might, I could not under
stand a word.
The man at my side suddenly
seized me by the arm again.
"Did you hear? Did you hear?"
he whispered. "He's telling her that
he loves her. He's asking her to get
a divorce from me."
I stared at the screen. John Howe
was in the midst of a furious alter
cation with Julia Rome, who, posing
as his abandoned wife, was clinging
to him, begging him to take her back
for the sake of the children. He thrust
er from him and sent her stagger
ing across the room.
"He's saying that her love for me is
dead and that he has loved her since
the first day they met," whispered my
companion, never relaxing his fierce
grasp upon my arm.
The pictures changed. I turned
and, though I could hardly see the
face of the forty-dollar man, I knew
that the crisis of his life was at hand.
I heard him breathing hard through
his nostrils. And still his fingers
gripped my sleeve as if they were
steel claws. '
Suddenly the grasp relaxed. The
man sank back in his place. I
watched him; he did not move a mus
cle. And I wondered at what decision
he had arrived. To tell the truth I
had not formed the highest impres
sion of Julia Rome. It did not seem
credible to me that a woman of such
rare talent and of such beauty would
be content with her husband in a lit
tle leased two-family house some
where in the suburban region of the
The lights went up again. Now I
could see my companion's face. He
was trembling, and perfectly white.
"Did you hear? No, but of course
you couldn't," he muttered. "She told
him she told him that she had never
loved anyone but me. She said that
she never wanted to see his face
again. She said that she was going
to leave the stage and return to me."
"Thank God!" I said softly.
"What am I going to do? I am not
worthy of her. I do not deserve her
"Forget it," I answered. "You've
had a picture play in your own fam
ily and haven't known it. That's all.
Go home and write to her like a man
and ask her pardon."
"I believe you're right," muttered
the little man.
He rose and went out. I never
saw him again. But, as everyone
knows, Julia Rome has not yet re
newed her contract
(Copyright by W. G. Chapman.)
A WINTER DEBUTANTE IN THE
TilSS 1MARIE. SIM 3
She's the daughter of Congress
man Sims of Tennessee, and will be
presented at a tea in late December,
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